


American Music on the Radio

by alyxpoe



Series: Snippets of Inspiration for Fanfic [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, johnlock - Fandom
Genre: Gen, M/M, favorite songs, personal soundtrack, soundtrack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-01
Updated: 2013-02-15
Packaged: 2017-11-27 19:23:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/665554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alyxpoe/pseuds/alyxpoe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first fanfic I've ever written. May add to it as I see fit, there may be no order to these one-shots, so please be warned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. No Rain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Song No Rain (C) by Blind Melon. No copyright infringement intended. I heard this on the radio yesterday and it has been bouncing around in my head since then. Thank you!  
> BTW, this is the very first one of these I have ever written, so thanks for reading.)

"All I can say is that my life is pretty plain  
I like watching the puddles gather rain

And all I can do is just pour some tea for two"

John stands in the kitchen waiting on the kettle to boil. He has taken to listening to American music during those occasional moments when he is alone in the flat. He smiles at the knowledge that his best friend and soul mate will be coming home any second. He'll sit down at the table (or jump around with his hands waving in the air likes he's completely deranged) and then...

"And speak my point of view  
But it's not sane, it's not sane

I just want someone to say to me no, oh, oh, oh  
I'll always be there when you wake, yea-ah"

John smirks. This song always reminds him of the two of them. Especially the part about telling him "no." John keeps Sherlock in line somehow, even when in the midst of a tantrum. He thinks about the reactions of most other normal people to Sherlock and can't stop smiling. It's all part of living with and loving a genius he guesses.

"And I don't understand why I sleep all day  
And I start to complain that there's no rain  
And all I can do is read a book to stay awake  
And it rips my life away, but it's a great escape  
Escape......escape......escape......"

John drums his fingers against his wheat-colored jumper. Everytime he hears that line he looks around at Sherlock's mess and considers the great mind. There are books strewn all over the living room and one single paperback lying in the middle of the side table next to John's favorite chair. He smiles quietly to himself. He would not have to be a mad genius to clearly see the organized chaos of his life, even though it was not what he imagined for himself three years ago, he would never change it now. Not for all the Queen's gold....or silver ashtrays.

He is turned toward the stove and doesn't hear Sherlock come up behind him. Suddenly there is a pair of thin but very strong arms around him and a baritone whisper in his ear...

"I'll always be there when you wake, yea-ah"

John smiles and his eyes sparkle. Though suprised that Sherlock knows the words, he is entirely unsurprised at the way his voice slides down the older man's spine and lodges there. John turns and the two men look into each others' souls and giggle. Anyone walking by the flat who could hear them would think they had absolutely lost their minds.

"So stay with me and I'll have it made..."


	2. Steppin' into the Twilight Zone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Fall. Sherlock has finally come to terms with what needs to be done. He needs to be dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (When the Bullet Hits the Bone, (C) Golden Earring. As always, no copyright infringement intended. Totally not what the song is about, but I thought some of the lyrics lent themselves well to a one-shot. I hope I succeeded. Thank you!)

Sherlock has finally come to terms with what needs to be done. He needs to be dead.  
It is the only way that everyone he cares about will be safe. He no longer questions these thoughts, but allows them to remain.  
He has considered this from every angle, or so he is sure. 

He is standing on the roof, wind whipping his hair into his face. A dead Moriarty at his feet. There is no going back. 

Running through his head is one of the songs from the American radio station John was listening to last night. It's dark and deep and for some reason Sherlock cannot make it stop.

"Help I'm stepping into the Twilight Zone.."  
He shakes his head and holds up his mobile phone. Part of his plan is to call John. He has to try and make the other man understand. It is so hard to think when you are looking down at the sidewalk. His heart pounds and he waits for his doctor to pick up, the song still banging in his temples.

"My beacon's been moved under moon and star  
Where am I to go now that I've gone too far?"

John's mobile rings.  
"I'm falling down a spiral, destination unknown  
Double-crossed messenger--all alone.  
Can't get no connection, can't get through  
Where are you?"

Suddenly, John is there on the ground stepping out of a cab. This is not where he is supposed to be. Sherlock reconsiders. Tells John to keep his eyes on him, if he could just do this one thing for him, please. He sees John tense up at the word 'please.' He can tell, even from this distance, that something is going on in John's brain. But Sherlock cannot back down now. If he cannot have courage for all of them, then they are all doomed. A world without John Watson is no world at all. 

Sherlock tosses his phone behind him, effectively closing their connection. 

He looks down at the ground and squeezes his eyes shut, hiding the tears that he knows will fall if he looks at John again.  
He jumps.  
It's all over.

 

Several weeks later, Sherlock is sitting on a train whipping through the French countryside. His thoughts turn, as they have so often, to his best mate. He hopes that John has figured out the game, that he wasn't too subtle, that his doctor can figure out all the clues he left him, when that blasted song runs through his head again without warning.  
"When the night weighs heavy on his guilty mind  
This far from the border line  
When the hitman comes he knows damn well he has been cheated."

There is no question in Sherlock's mind that there is guilt involved in the way he went about his plan. It is a strange thing that needs to be dissected. Somewhere in the middle of all of his planning and preparation, he has found his heart. In his mind it is a little gold nugget with the initials J.H. carved into it. But, first he must hunt down the rest of the spiders. He has to crush them all, make sure that he can go home again. He will never say that he does this *all* for John, but one day when he can explain himself, he will make it seem that way. 

"Where am I to go now that I've gone too far  
So you'll come to know...  
When the bullet hits the bone."

Hanging on to the music is like having a piece of his doctor with him. It helps blanket the loneliness that comes with a soul-searing single purpose.


	3. Dead Man's Touch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Blue on Black (C) Kenny Wayne Shepherd, no copyright infringement intended.)

It's been three weeks, and John has yet to grieve. He goes to work and moves through the days, but he's only existing. He's tired of the sideways glances and the knowing looks he gets from everyone. His mind is steadily turning in upon itself. 

He tried to stay with Harry for a while, but that simply didn't work out. Their lives are just different. Or they were, anyway. That's enough.

He stands in front of the door to 221B and tries to remember what his point was in being here. The sun has set and the day is slowly dying. It is either go in now or stand out here in the dark. John sighs and puts his key into the lock. 

He pushes open the door and slowly pulls himself upstairs, almost as if the load he carries is simply too much. 

The flat is quiet. He has been coming in every so often and cleaning up a little at a time. Mrs Hudson does not appear to be in too much of a hurry, but he wonders if the books and stacks of papers hurt her as much as they hurt him. 

He heads straight for the kitchen and his hands go through the motions of putting on the kettle and making tea. Just as absently, they turn on his radio. John never considers that it would be strange if there had been any other music playing from any other station other than the one he was listening to the day before...well, you know. His brain attempts to shut down. He needs to make peace with his mind and something deep inside searches for a way to do just that. 

John digs around in the drawers until he comes up with a candle and a book of matches. The candle is from who-knows-where but the matchbook is from Angelo's. A sting pierces his heart. All those memories...

He sits the candle on a little saucer and carries it and his tea to the low table in front of the couch. He lights the wick and watches the flame sputter. He draws his knees up to his chest and just sits there. Waiting to feel. Anything. 

The music from the kitchen is low, but enough that he can hear. It's a deep sadness that wafts through the air. A song he has only heard once before, but the lyrics surprisingly appropriate. He closes his eyes and rests his head on the back of the couch. 

"Night, falls, and I'm alone  
Skin, yeah, chilled me to the bone  
You, turned and you ran,  
Oh yeah  
Oh slipped, right from my hand"

John considers his failure in protecting his best friend from his fate. Once again, as millions of times in the past few weeks, he watches Sherlock Holmes fall from a rooftop that seems to get higher each time he remembers it. The phone call, that baritone voice telling him to "keep your eyes on me."

"Blind, oh, now i see  
Truth, lies, and in between  
Wrong, cant be undone  
Oh slipped, from the tip of  
Your tongue"

He thinks of the lie. The biggest lie of all. John still does not believe it. He cannot accept that so powerful and so good a force in this world can simply be erased that way. A tear rolls down his cheek. He makes no effort to brush it away. 

"Hey  
Blue on black  
Tears on a river  
Push on a shove  
It don't mean much  
Joker on jack"

John thinks of his flatmate, friend, soul mate...his green eyes and black coat. The dark blue scarf always placed just so. Blue on black...  
The warm tears are coming harder now. Somewhere in the back of his mind he has broken through walls that he wasn't even aware he had built. 

"Match on a fire  
Cold on ice  
A dead mans touch  
Whisper on a scream  
Doesn't change a thing  
Doesn't bring you back, yeah  
Blue on black  
Oh, blue on black  
Oh, yeah"

As if on cue, he feels a light long-fingered hand on the back of his neck. He does not move or jump or even acknowledge the fact with more than part of his mind. He knows it is not real, just a dead man's touch. The sobs wrack his body and he despairs of a future that will not happen. Not now. He opens his eyes and stares at the shadows flickering on the ceiling. He cannot hear his own sobbing, but part of him knows it's for the best. 

"Whisper on a scream  
Doesn't change a thing  
Doesn't bring you back..."

As the song ends, a strange peace comes over John. He closes his eyes and rests for the first time since he lost his best friend. The candle sputters and dies, leaving him shadowed in a new kind of darkness. Music plays in the background, but he is too deep into his dreams now to acknowledge it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's 3:30 AM here and I woke up with this song running through my head. I hope you all can understand. Thank you for reading! If anyone out there is interested, a picture of John on the couch and a ghostly transparent Sherlock behind him in the semi-darkness of a single lit candle came into my mind when I started this whole thing.


	4. Enjoy the Silence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy the Silence, (C) DePeche Mode. No copyright infringement intended. One of my favorite songs of all time, so I had to use it.

John Watson has taken to walking around the city at night. Just after supper, he puts on his coat and starts walking. He usually returns home about midnight. During these walks, he takes no note of where he is going nor does he remember just where he has been. It is very strange, but somewhat relaxing and it quiets his mind. It is possible that he does this because it reminds him of all the running about he and Sherlock did together, at all hours of the day and night.

Always for the case. A bitter smile crosses John's face. It has been six months, and the hurt has finally started to subside. That is not to say that he still fights the pain everyday, but perhaps the walking and exhausting his body is effecting his mind. He doesn't know if he is still having nightmares and he wakes up everyday surprised that the whole world hasn't fallen apart in the night. Everyday he is even more surprised that he is still breathing. He's impressed with the way his body has taken up taking care of itself, even when he forgets to feed it. 

He is staying in 221B. He just has nowhere else to go. 

John wanders about the sidewalks, watching the cabs and cars go by. The occasional ambulance rumbles past, sirens wailing their pitiful cry and naturally that brings him right back to Sherlock. So many nights he has returned back to the flat and wanted to sleep, but then found himself sitting in the dark staring at a blank computer screen. He wants to write again, wants to have discussions online with invisible...what? friends? no. Just humans making contact with each other, too many times behind names that aren't really their own. It is enough for him. If this is what his life has become, then he can accept it. 

A police car rushes past John, lights and sirens running at top speed. More memories follow it as it disappears into the inky blackness of the city. 

In the pulsating light, John looks quickly at his watch. It is after eleven. Time to head home. He doesn't look around, never even takes his bearings, but his feet seem to know which way to go so he follows them. He stops at the corner and waits on the traffic light. Above him, in a flat to his right, someone is playing eighties music. Through the darkness comes the lyrics...

"All I ever wanted,  
All I ever needed,  
Was here in my arms.  
Words are very unnecessary,  
They can only do harm."

John feels the tears again. Memories of things he should have said to Sherlock jolt through him. He just needs to get back home. He needs to be in the place where they shared so much together. Intellectually and emotionally, each on a level with the other that made the rest of the world redundant. These thoughts bounce around his mind like a strange techno-keyboard harmony. 

He remembers Sherlock's sharp tongue when irritated from being interrupted while doing experiments in the kitchen or just sitting still and thinking through whatever vexing problem was the issue of the day. 

"Words are meaningless  
And forgettable..."

John sighs as he turns his key in the lock. He makes his way up the seventeen steps, unconsciously counting them. Something does not feel right and he is suddenly on the alert. Once a solider, always a soldier. There are some things that no pain can change. He pulls off his coat and reaches to his back. He does not grab his weapon, but its presence is comforting. It is there if and when he needs it. 

He hears a small scuffle again. There is someone else here. This time he reaches and draws the Glock from his waistband. He does not chamber a round, but instead freezes and waits for the sound again, going through a list of people that it could possibly be. He slowly inches his way down the wall and towards the kitchen. He has almost decided that it is probably Mycroft, again, when he sees a tall figure stand up and hears the legs of a chair being pushed back into place under the table. 

He clicks the trigger one time and the bullet slides into place with a metallic hiss. He will not go that easily. He stops in his tracks and hold his weapon at the ready, finger off the trigger. Just in case. "I don't know who you are, but if you move I will not hesitate to shoot you."

The shadowy figure steps back and John sees the arm move. In the half second before he pulls the trigger, the light comes on. John drops his weapon and vaguely hears it clatter to the floor.

He can't believe his eyes.

Standing in the kitchen is the one person he could never imagine ever seeing again. A person who just missed a second death. 

John stands there, his face wet with tears and listens to Sherlock as the younger man begins to ramble. His words are a jumble in John's overtaxed brain. Something about he had to do it, lives at stake, and would John really have shot him? Who else would be here? Sherlock is getting agitated because John simply is not responding. His beautiful hands are moving about, John almost sees tracers of light around them.  
Is this real?  
Where in his marvelous brain does he think showing up not dead at midnight does he think is normal?

Suddenly, Dr Watson can't take it any more. It's three steps and he is standing right in front of Sherlock. Then he is on his toes trying to shorten the six inch distance between their faces. He reaches up and grabs Sherlock's neck, pulling the taller man downward. He growls "Just shut up Sherlock" into the detective's face. Sherlock's eyes widen and their lips meet. He closes the gap between them and its like an apology for everything. Everything. Every hurt and pain in John's life, he wants to take it away. 

There simply is nothing else to say, and their bodies talk as if they had never been apart. Physically finding new ways to communicate in mere seconds what needed to be said long ago. 

In John's mind, the lyrics come back and now he knows his life is never going to be the same.  
"All I ever wanted,  
All I ever needed,  
Was here in my arms...  
Words are very uncessary"


	5. The Reaper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Don't Fear the Reaper (C) Blue Oyster Cult. I do not own any of these characters or lyrics, just borrowing them to satisfy my brain.

It is not the first time that Sherlock and John make love that is the turning moment in their relationship. Nor their first kiss, nor the first time they spoke of their growing romantic feelings for each other. No, it is something that happened much sooner in their time together that almost pulls Sherlock apart at the seams. 

The mirror in the large bathroom is pleasantly steamed. Sherlock stretches his legs languidly in the hot water that fills the antique claw-footed bathtub. He slowly feels the adrenaline rush leave his body after a chase and a take-down. He can feel the steam working its magic, slowly unraveling tight muscles, though it is positively not doing any magic to the mass of dark curls atop his head. 

He sits back and rests his neck on the side of the tub, the only one he has ever been able to find that comfortably fits his long feline frame. It actually quite comfortably fits two grown men, he thinks calmly, then files that thought away for later use.

Sherlock can hear John moving about the kitchen, listening to music on shuffle on his new iPod. John aquired the iPod after a particularly explosive experiment destroyed his old radio. He was angry and then satisfied that nothing else was hurt. Mrs Hudson would kill them if they destroyed her kitchen, well, again. He stretched his legs again, feeling the heat from the water working shiatsu down his calves and ankles and down into his long toes. Before John, he could not remember ever being able to relax this way. Especially in the presence of another human being. 

The music in the kitchen was a kind of balm after a chaotic day. He listened as it changed from a slow lovey number to a hard driving drumming. He closed his eyes. 

"All our times have come  
Here, but now there, gone  
Seasons don't fear the reaper  
Nor do the wind, the sun or the rain  
(We can be like they are)"

Interesting, Sherlock thinks. Then he remembers standing and looking down into the cabby's smart arse face. The man is studying him right back with a cold, calculating look. Sherlock is holding the white capsule in his hand and almost begging the cabby to tell him, the great consulting detective, that he is right. The cabby is almost laughing at Sherlock and will not give him the answer. Sherlock holds the capsule to the light in his long, tapered fingers and is almost over the brink when the shot rings out. 

"40,000 men and women every day  
(Like Romeo and Juliet)"

The song in the kitchen seems an appropriate soundtrack for this memory. Sherlock closes his eyes again and is instantly back there, waiting, needing to find out. Needing someone else to acknowledge that he is right. The cabby falls to the floor and glass breaks. Sherlock knows that the glass broke as the bullet passed through it, but somehow he senses had it backward. 

"Come on baby  
(Don't fear the reaper)  
Baby take my hand  
(Don't fear the reaper)  
We'll be able to fly"

It is when he is sitting on the bumper of the ambulance with that ridiculous blanket on his shoulders brilliantly deducing aloud to D.I. Lestrade that he realizes the water he is treading. He almost gives up the one person that he underestimated. He turns toward Dr. John Watson standing just in the shadows of the police vehicles, looking around nonchalantly, and almost gasps when the epiphany hits. It's like fireworks in his brain, but he hides it from Lestrade. 

"The curtains flew  
And then he appeared  
Saying 'Don't be Afraid'  
Come on baby..."

It was that earth-shattering moment that Sherlock knew there was more to this relationship than any he had every had in his thirty one years on the planet. A protector? a friend? Someone with character? loyalty? Just what was this? He remembers vividly the thoughts that ran through his mind. Nothing would ever be the same. 

Even when he was gone, out smashing spiders, he would think of this moment.  
Sherlock stood and gracefully climbed out of the tub. He calmly pulled the stopper and laid it on the sink. With the other hand he dragged the big blue towel around himself and lightly pulled it around his waist. It balanced across his slim hips like a toga. 

Sherlock padded barefoot into the kitchen where he could watch his lover. Just as the song ended, John turned and smiled at the detective, stepping in close and wrapping his arms around Sherlock's hips. 

"Come on baby  
(Don't fear the reaper)  
Baby take my hand  
(Don't fear the reaper)  
We'll be able to fly  
(Don't fear the reaper)"  
Sherlock could read on his doctor's face that in John's mind, his young detective looked like a Greek god. His heart swelled.  
"Baby I'm your man..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gotcha ;)


	6. Dream On, Sherlock, Dream On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock will play while the good doctor is away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dream On (C) Aerosmith. No copyright infringement intended. I don't own any of these characters nor lyrics, they are only here for your enjoyment (and mine.) Probably should warn you there may be some references here to getting high, if you don't like that sort of stuff, then don't read it. Thanks. Also, I have never been to Amsterdam, so if my description of a fancy (posh) hotel room there is off, please forgive me.

Sherlock sat back in the massive four-poster bed fully clothed, his legs spread straight out in front of him. John was in Amsterdam for a medical conference and Sherlock, having no cases at the moment, decided to tag along. For more than one reason, Amsterdam was his second favorite city next to London. 

He rested his head on his hands up against the heavy wooden headboard, quietly listening for John's movements as the other man went about his showering routine. Sherlock could not go with John this time, but they would be meeting up later for dinner. Anyone looking in would think that Sherlock was simply sitting still, but those who knew him knew much better. His mind whirred behind his eyes, planning for the hours that John would be gone today. A soft smirk spread across his features and he gently moved his hips, just enough to feel the bag in his trouser pocket. Amsterdam was a good place. 

John, fully dressed and shiny clean, stepped into the room and smiled at his best friend. Sherlock decided at that moment that he liked a shiny clean John, the smaller man looked so confident as he rolled his white lab coat around his shoulders. 

"Sherlock, please don't get into too much trouble."  
"I assure you, doctor, that I am going to stay here in this lovely room all day."  
John quirked an eyebrow, softly imitating his lover. He had been a tad worried about bringing them to this particular city for a multitude of reasons, but he knew he could trust Sherlock. If he said he would not be leaving the room today, then he would not. It had been a year since the detective had resurfaced and there were still times when John felt the irresistible tug of anxiety toward Sherlock, but things were getting better and he knew they would continue to do so.  
"Ok." John stood up straight and smiled up at his beautiful, tall, lover as Sherlock had bounded off the bed to stand before him in the blink of an eye. They kissed, a soft, endearing "I love you" and John was out the door. 

Sherlock waited exactly five minutes, knowing that John was well on his way. His habits of always being on time, if not a few minutes early, were ingrained and did not waiver when it was important. (Unless Sherlock sent him texts about random experiments that had gone awry. Usually in the kitchen. But that was not important at the moment.)

Sherlock pushed off his shoes and slid his feet out of his black socks. Feeling playful, he launched one of them across the room and watched as it landed near the door, gold toe up. For a moment, he was distracted and wondered if he threw the other one whether it would land in exactly the same manner. That would certainly lead to some interesting computations. He reached for the second sock---  
Nope.  
The second sock landed gold toe down in a rather more haphazard manner. Sherlock gave it up as a wash. 

The tall man bounded back to the bed and dropped down on it so hard that the springs squealed their displeasure. Oh ho! He bounced his butt up and down a couple more times just to make sure they wouldn't make too much noise when it was important...then thought about calling room service to see if they had some lubricant for the springs...then decided that the noise might make the whole night more interesting.  
He really wanted to stay out of what John defined as "trouble." He really did.  
Resolutely, he did not look out the window. Nor did he open the door and stare down the hallway.  
He was absolutely going to NOT find any other people that he could practice his deductions on.  
Sighing, he picked up the television remote and flipped through some channels. Nothing remotely worth staring at.  
He turned it off. His fingers tapped the nightstand.  
He did not have his violin as he simply could not bear those rent-a-cops at the airport to touch the refined instrument.  
He sighed through his lips like a little kid. The air from his mouth caused the curl on his forehead (there from looking under the bed) to dance. That kept him entertained for oh, about fifteen seconds.  
A single word rumbled through his mind.  
BORED.  
He looked at the clock. Oh dear. John had been gone exactly fifteen minutes. 

***  
Sherlock would not remember turning on the clock radio. He only knew that at one point the room was full of sweet-smelling smoke and he was stretched out on the huge bed completely naked. He stared at the items in his long fingers for several seconds and then slowly tossed the cigarette lighter across the room. Oddly enough, it landed exactly on top of the first sock. His eyes twinkled and he laughed. It was his "John laugh" a full-bellied, joie d'vivre type laugh. He listened to the rock and roll, letting what his doctor referred to as the "Classics of Rock" roll over his body.  
He was feeling so good that he could see the colors of the music.  
This was sweet. He was out of trouble and doing absolutely nothing illegal!  
He snorted and coughed a short cough. Taking another drag on the item he pointedly had not launched across the room, he closed his eyes and focused on the lyrics of the music playing. 

"The past is gone  
It went by like dusk to dawn  
Isn't that the way  
Everybody's got dues in life to pay"

And he had paid. Moriarty's face swam into Sherlock's mind. The anger, the hatred that filled the other man's body. In Sherlock's mind, he could see the throbbing strands of red lines that poured from that little Irishman as he stared up into Sherlock's eyes there on the roof.  
Sherlock sighed, white smoke pouring out of his mouth. 

 

"Half my life  
Is books written pages  
Live and learn from fools and from sages..."

Sherlock's mind whirled, but slowly, as if going through an online photo album. He thought about growing up. His ever-present need to *know.* Faces spun by. Criminals he had helped put behind bars. His family. His mother. Mycroft. John.  
Everything always came back to John. Smiling to himself through the haze, Sherlock called John Watson his sage.  
Only he did not realize that he had said it out loud. 

"It all comes back to you!  
Sing with me  
Sing for the years  
Sing for the laughter,  
Sing for the tears..."

John stepped out of the doorway and gazed down intensely at the naked figure sprawled across the purple silk duvet. He opened his mouth to tell Sherlock off about the smoke filling the room...but when the naked man in the bed opened his eyes it was like silver moonbeams danced across the room and reached out to him. John's jaw dropped open and he moved toward the bed. He would not take a drag, not being due back at the conference to speak in the morning, but....  
the stream of thought bounced right out his skull.  
He sat up on his knees and just stared at the beautiful, mystifying creature in front of him.  
Sherlock had absolutely stayed out of trouble!

John leaned down slowly.  
Sherlock saw his lover's face move slowly toward his own. When John opened his eyes, he could feel the warm blue enveloping his body and holding him in place. For this then. This was his joy. He smiled against John's lips and as they embraced, he could hear the refrain...

"Dream on.  
Dream On.  
Dream until your dreams  
Come true..."

Even in the haze, with the feeling of love all around him, Sherlock knew his dreams had come true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have more of these I would like to publish, but I'd like to know if you are enjoying them. I'm even up for requests, but please no Country. Thanks!


End file.
